Speak plain -- call bread bread, and wine wine.
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Neighbours
My neighbour has a field of wheat
And I a rood of vine;
And he will give me bread to eat,
And I will give him wine.
And so we are a jolly pair,
Contentedly unwed,
Singing with supper as we share
Red wine and crusty bread.
Now venison is mighty meat
And so is trout and hare;
A mallard duck is sweat to eat
And quail is dainty fare.
But such are foods for festal day,
And we will not repine
While on the table we can lay
Crisp bread and rosy wine.
A will to till one's own of soil
Is worth a kingly crown,
With bread to feed the belly need,
And wine to wash it down.
So with my neighbour I rejoice
That we are fit and free,
Content to praise with lusty voice
Bread, Wine and Liberty.
poem by Robert William Service
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This Bread I Break
This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.
Once in this time wine the summer blood
Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
Once in this bread
The oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.
This flesh you break, this blood you let
Make desolation in the vein,
Were oat and grape
Born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Today... 'Bread
Manna of Heaven coming from God
walked with us and earths pathways trod.
Come let's taste and see that the Lord is good
and not just settle for plain earthly food
There is Bread that God to mankind did give
So that we might all eat of it and live.
The Body of Christ is that Bread given
The Bread of Life that came down from heaven.
This Bread was stricken and smitten of God
when up the hill of Calvary He trod.
He was wounded and broken there for me
bore the price of sin that I might go free.
I've been to communion with You Lord
Broke the Bread in accordance with Your Word.
No bread of earth tasted so sweet and fair
as the bread I broke supping with You there
Such a feast was set by God before men
sweet Bread and wine laid upon the table then.
Bread broken for iniquities of mine
and into the cup poured the blood red wine
As I broke the bread Lord, I heard You say
'This is my body broken for you that day.'
Then I closed my eyes and I saw You Lord
hanging for me upon the cross of wood.
I heard You cry in pain and agony
Shout 'My God why have you forsaken me.'
Then 'Father forgive them ', I heard You say
for those that drove the nails in deep that day.
Your body bearing the sins of mankind
was wounded for these transgressions of mine.
Bowing Your head becoming Broken Bread
as You bore the wrath of God in my stead.
Broken for me was that Heavenly Bread
for my sins You suffered and You bled.
Wondrous love has been shown my God to me
for I'm saved by Your death at Calvary.
Praise God for the Bread that came from Heaven.
Praise God for the life that He has given.
Grace and mercy He lavished upon me
when the Bread was broken upon that tree.
(see also the additional information below in the Poet's box)
I think that at the supper I neither receive flesh nor blood, but bread and wine; which bread when it is broken, and the wine when it is drunken, put me in remembrance how that for my sins the body of Christ was broken, and his blood shed on the cross.
Today... 'Living Bread
The Living Bread came from heaven
down upon earth to dwell
That we might eat of Him and live
and thus be saved from hell.
To taste and see that the Lord was good
I went to Calvary.
Saw Jesus on that cross of wood
broken there for me.
Your body was broken
and Your blood poured
I was forgiven
Thank You Lord.
******
In Your banqueting house I stayed
on the table I could see
The Bread and the wine had been laid
Speaking such love to me
Bread was broken
the wine was poured
I stand forgiven
Thank You Lord
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
Those Were The Days
There is a landscape in my head
I sometimes travel
But this is strictly after dark
Beyond the barricades and trenches
There stands the factory
Hand me the costum of the sad acrobat
And he says:
Son, this is the bread I break for you
But do not touch it
And he says:
Son, this is the wine I pour for you
But do not drink it
Dein aschenes haar, sulamith
And he says:
Son, this is the bread I break for you
Son, this is the wine I pour for you
But do not drink it, dont drink at all..
There is a stranger on the shore
I sometimes travel
But this is strictly in my dreams
He feeds the seagulls in the winds with ashes
And as he speaks hes got my fathers voice
And he says:
Son, here is some bread I broke for you
Son, here is some wine..
Those were the days, my friend
Dein aschenes haar, sulamith
Der tod ist ein meister aus deutschland
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
poem by Billy Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
Anonymous submission.
poem by William Taylor Collins
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Wine (Love Poem)
Wine is for laughing
Wine is for talking all night
Wine is for living life out loud
Wine is for making us beautiful
Wine is for all-night conversations
Wine is for getting together again
Wine is for ‘never again’ tomorrow
Wine is for sleeping like a baby
Wine is for telling the truth
Wine is food for love
Wine is friendship
Wine is fresh
Wine
Can
Be
The
One
Perfe ct
Companion
At the end of a long day
poem by Ian Beckett
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Church And State
HERE is fresh matter, poet,
Matter for old age meet;
Might of the Church and the State,
Their mobs put under their feet.
O but heart's wine shall run pure,
Mind's bread grow sweet.
That were a cowardly song,
Wander in dreams no more;
What if the Church and the State
Are the mob that howls at the door!
Wine shall run thick to the end,
Bread taste sour.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Sexy Ginger Bread Man
On his body is a ginger bread thong
To soften you up he sings a sweet sugar song
If you hit on him he’ll play along
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
He’ll seduce you with candy wine
One a scale from 1-10 he is a 9
Girls look at him and say, “He’s so fine”
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
On his face are peanut butter eyes
He has powdered sugar on his manly thighs
He will reel you in with his seductive lies
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
On this neck is a chain of candy
Around the house he can be handy
If you add frosting he can be pretty randy
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
Out of the batch he is the pick
He has a giant ginger bread stick
It has rainbow sprinkles on it
He’s the sexy ginger bread man
You bite the chain and swallow the thong
Eat the stick which is very long
You gobble him up till he’s all gone
NO MORE sexy ginger bread man
poem by Paul Celano
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Bread and Wine
A cup of opal
Through which there glows
The cream of the pearl,
The heart of the rose;
And the blue of the sea
Where Australia lies,
And the amber flush
Of her sunset skies,
And the emerald tints
Of the dragon fly
Shall stain my cup
With their brilliant dye.
And into this cup
I would pour the wine
Of youth and health
And the gifts divine
Of music and song,
And the sweet content
Which must ever belong
To a life well spent.
And what bread would I break
With my wine, think you?
The bread of a love
That is pure and true.
poem by Inez K Hyland
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Bible, Franz Kafka And Mayan Popol Vuh
Drinking wine, because the
wine is for the spirit, eating
bread, because the bread
is for the flesh of the body,
needing to be alive, needing
to be able to use the words,
all the words belonging to
God in the moment that ''God
said, Let us make man in our
image, '' as Bible says.So,
The Lord gave us the words,
as a great gift.So, we are
drinking wine and we are
eating bread to be with Him,
because without Him, our words
may become silence. Moreover,
we may be unable to use them,
we may ''turn into monkeys'' as
Mayan Popol Vuh says. Who really
knows how many kinds of species
talked? Why did the serpent talk with
Eve? Did the serpent belong to a
talking specie? What Kafka really
wanted to say in his ''Metamorphosis''?
I understand that we can die all and
we can be created again by Him,
The Great Creator. The Darwin's theory
of evolution and Mayan theory of
involution may be false, but the
power of God is true. All I really know
is that we need to be good people
and really faithful to be existent.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Bread And Wine!
i saw the buddha
in the eyes of the prisoner,
waiting to be executed.
our system of justice,
demands retribution,
as long as it's someone else!
preferably,
someone poor,
addicted, uneducated,
black, Hispanic,
or just plain old
white trailer trash.
the homeless man,
the man who's lost it all,
the man with no job,
no future, no dream...
no one will miss them anyway!
while the 'gods of success',
wheel and deal on the market,
playing with lives,
as if playing cards.
starting wars that make them rich,
raping the planet, even richer!
and taking from the poor,
always the poor.
immune?
above the law?
a different set of rules,
and a phony morality.
they kill the buddha
for bread and wine...
bread made of flesh,
wine made of blood!
the cost of justice...
afforded by the few!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Heavenly Banquet
I went to the heavenly banquet
The table that Jesus had set.
and broke the bread and drank the wine
nourishing this poor soul of mine.
Then my spirit soared heavenward
as before His table I stood
knowing that He loved me so much
experiencing His tender touch.
I felt complete and satisfied
there with Jesus the crucified.
The wine was rich, the bread so sweet
as I worshipped there at His feet.
My soul fed very well that day
as I journeyed upon my way.
and back into my home I went
my spirit feeling so content.
Luxor Of Luxuries
Thy wealth is of thy labours!
Thy luxury is of the works of thy labours!
Thou who has never taken from any cunningly!
Thy who has never gone a-plundering!
Thou who has never taken from any his earnings forcefully!
Thou whose bread and wine is just!
Thy luxury pleases me!
Let not my bread and wine be from plunderings!
Let not my meat be gotten thievery!
Thy kind of wealth is my desire!
Nay! On thy table, there be not the meat for animals!
In thy cup, there be not wine from the orchards of inferiors!
Thy wealth is wealth indeed!
For there be no stains of paupery thereof!
Luxor! Oh luxor! !
Give to me of thy wealth!
That i mayest hold up my head amongst men!
That i may say boldly!
I am of luxor the great sun that shines upon all of his wealth of light!
To thee oh luxor! My heart calls out!
I am well as well!
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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As The Red Wine Into The Cup Is Poured
Christ the Lamb upon the alter stone.
Christ the sacrifice to atone.
Christ's blood, the wines a token.
Christ the bread that was broken.
As the grape was crushed to make the wine
so Christ was crushed for sins of mine.
As the red wine into the cup was poured
so Christ for me His blood outpoured.
As the bread was broken that we share
so Christ was broken upon the cross there.
'Father forgive, ' I hear Him cry
so I could live He was willing to die.
The Sea-Swallows
THIS FELL when Christmas lights were done,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
But before the Easter lights begun;
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.
Two lovers sat where the rowan blows
And all the grass is heavy and fine,
By the gathering-place of the sea-swallows
When the wind brings them over Tyne.
Blossom of broom will never make bread,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
Between her brows she is grown red,
That was full white in the fields by Tyne.
“O what is this thing ye have on,
Show me now, sweet daughter of mine?”
“O father, this is my little son
That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.
“O what will ye give my son to eat,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Fen-water and adder’s meat,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye get my son to wear,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“A weed and a web of nettle’s hair,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye take to line his bed,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Two black stones at the kirkwall’s head,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye give my son for land,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Three girl’s paces of red sand,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“Or what will ye give me for my son,
Red rose leaves will never make wine?”
“Six times to kiss his young mouth on,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
“But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,
And what have ye made of the washing-wine?
Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,
To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?”
“The bearing-bread is soft and new,
There is no soil in the straining wine:
The bed was made between green and blue,
It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.
“The fair grass was my bearing-bread,
The well-water my washing-wine;
The low leaves were my bearing-bed,
And that was best in the sides of Tyne.”
“O daughter, if ye have done this thing,
I wot the greater grief is mine;
This was a bitter child-bearing,
When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.
“About the time of sea-swallows
That fly full thick by six and nine,
Ye’ll have my body out of the house,
To bury me by the sides of Tyne.
“Set nine stones by the wall for twain,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the bed I take will measure ten,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.
“Tread twelve girl’s paces out for three,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
For the pit I made has taken me,
The ways are sair fra’ the Till to the Tyne.”
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Bread Hair
Im a wigged-out daddy with bread on top
I dig an easy-bake granny with a whiskey mop
If you love me, you neednt the whole wheat crop
cause they had a useless battle andll never stop
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Im a pumpernickel-do for you, dough you do
Use a yarmulka of hallah bread if youre a jew
I belong to cayope*, I be the wheat for you
Yeast and flour, bake an hour, its annoying shampoo
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Drivin all my hope away
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Bread hair, oh boy, oh boy
Youre drivin all my hope away
Thats a gone rug, buddy
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bread is wiser
Butter is richer than bread
But can’t replace bread.
But butter is better with bread
For which is not sad the bread.
Wives are not wiser than bread.
05.02.2000, Palakkad
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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